


Happenstance

by MissMaudlin



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fanfic Trope, Hotels, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-09
Updated: 2015-03-09
Packaged: 2018-03-17 01:45:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3510572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissMaudlin/pseuds/MissMaudlin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Abbie, Crane, one motel room. It was inevitable, really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happenstance

It wasn’t an ideal situation. But then again, when had their lives been an ideal situation since all of this began? This was just adding to the never-ending list.

Abbie flipped the light switch to see the motel room in all of its dingy glory: faded, vaguely brown carpet, yellowish walls, one crooked painting hanging from the wall. At least it looked reasonably clean, she thought, but the smell of stale cigarette smoke hung in the air, making the room seem even dingier.

Crane stepped behind her, his hands behind his back. “And you are certain they only had one room left, Lieutenant?” he inquired. His voice—pleasant, tinged in that aristocratic lilt Abbie found rather endearing—exuded calm. Only Abbie knew that he put his hands behind his back when he was agitated and trying not to show it.

”Yep, this is the only one. Apparently there’s some motorcycle gang coming through town tonight and they took up all of the rooms. Nice timing for us, huh?” Abbie sat down on the bed—it creaked ominously under her weight—and began taking off her boots. “But it’s better than driving all night when we’re both too tired to keep our eyes open.”

"Be that as it may, I have every intention of sleeping in one of those chairs—" Crane made a wave of his hand at one of the orange chairs in the corner, its cushion barely thicker than an inch or two, an indentation of someone’s ass still noticeable in the middle. "And allowing you the bed, if we are to share this room."

Abbie rolled her eyes and tossed her boots into the corner. “You don’t have to, Crane. We can share the bed without anything _untoward_ occurring.” She looked up at him, her brows slightly raised. “At least I can promise that: can you?”

Crane flexed his fingers, his agitation making his lanky body stiff and awkward. Abbie restrained a smile as he sniffed haughtily and replied, “Certainly I can.” He went to the window then, his hands curling and uncurling as he walked. “What a lovely view we have” Abbie heard him mutter under his breath. The view was, in fact, of the parking lot and highway running parallel to the motel, but Abbie thought provoking him further was probably not wise.

They’d driven to northern Maine—almost to the Canadian border—on a mission involving finding a magical artifact. After an exhaustive search, they’d come up empty, and hadn’t really slept in days. When driving back to Sleepy Hollow, Abbie realized that she couldn’t keep her eyes open, and neither could Crane. Their best bet was to stay at a motel for a night just to get enough sleep in order to drive the rest of the way home.

So there they were: in some cheap motel in the middle of Maine, with only one king-sized bed to share. And all Abbie wanted to do was take a shower and go to bed—with her partner or not.

"I’m taking a shower," she announced to no one in particular as she stood to go to the bathroom after grabbing her bag of toiletries. Crane murmured something as Abbie closed the bathroom door, flipping on the light switch. The light flickered a few moments before turning on, illuminating the orange-tinged bathroom with its stark light. Abbie stripped quickly, laying her clothes on the toilet seat before flipping the dials on the shower, making the water as hot as she possibly could.

As she stood under the steaming water and let it stream down her body, she felt the aches of the past few days run from her limbs. It felt heavenly, this shower in a cheap motel. And if she were to be perfectly honest with herself, she needed the time to calm her own nerves, to get her head in the game, so to speak. She’d joked about Crane and her sleeping together, but she didn’t know if _she_ could restrain herself.

They’d been dancing around each other for months now that Katrina was out of the picture. Oh, they’d always danced around each other, Abbie knew, if she were being completely honest. But it had always seemed like a flirtation, like a weird type of friendship, but with an attraction sparking underneath with every stolen glance, every hug, every vow of loyalty to only each other.

Now though—now, Crane looked at her, really _looked_ at her with something that she didn’t dare yet name. And she’d always glance away, her heart pounding, refusing to give in. She couldn’t give in. He was her partner and fellow Witness, and that was all he could ever be—is what she’d told herself. But Katrina was gone now, he was a free man, what did it matter?

Abbie glanced up, then, to the corner of the bathroom to see a gigantic spider crawling down the wall, and she was so startled at its size that she shrieked—

And suddenly she found the shower curtain pulled back with force and Crane’s face was in front of her demanding _Abbie, what happened!_ and she just stood there, the water running down her body, her nudity blatant in the harsh fluorescent light. Crane’s gaze followed the length of her body, from the indentation of her waist to her breasts to her throat and when he reached her face he suddenly realized what he’d done. He then blushed scarlet and closed the curtain with a swift flick of his wrist.

"Abbie, I apologize most heartily, but you screamed—" His voice stuttered, his speech choked, like his throat had closed up.

Abbie let out a shaky breath and leaned against the tile of the shower wall, glancing up to see that the spider had scurried off in the commotion. “It was just a spider,” she replied, her voice just as shaky. “It surprised me. I shouldn’t have screamed like that, and now I feel like an idiot.” She could’ve bashed her forehead into the wall, she felt so stupid.

There was silence on the other side of the curtain before Crane replied with an, “Oh. Oh, a spider. Well—” and he coughed before opening the bathroom door. “I will let you finish bathing,” and then he left as quickly as he’d entered.

*

Ichabod Crane often felt that an eidetic memory was most useful: he could remember moments with a clarity sharper than his fellow man or woman; he could scan a page in a book and remember what it said without struggling through the rigors of memorization; he remembered facts—people, places, things—that most would forget moments after seeing them, stored away to be utilized when necessary.

Tonight, however, he cursed his eidetic memory. He wished he could forget the way Miss Mills looked standing there, water streaming down her face—those lips, those dark, long lashes—to the lovely arches of her shoulders to her glorious breasts to the indentation of her tiny waist to her belly button to—

He sighed gustily and rubbed his eyes, before adjusting himself below; he was hard as stone and had been the moment he’d seen Abbie nude. No, he couldn’t forget the image of a nude Miss Mills. Even if he didn’t have an eidetic memory, everything about her would have imprinted on his mind for all eternity, to remind him of what he could never have.

When Katrina had left him for Abraham, her smile soft but her eyes hard with determination, he’d imagined himself a broken man. But Abbie’s presence, her care for him, her humor, her very existence forced him to realize what a sham his marriage had always been. His relationship with Abbie had been the truest, most honest one of his life—not his marriage to Katrina. Katrina had represented a life now lost, a way of thinking dashed to pieces, and an existence that he knew had never been more than a delusion in his own mind. Katrina had been his symbol, his idol—but never his wife.

And he realized one night, when he and Abbie ate dinner together, that he loved her, a love that enveloped him and overwhelmed him and made him want to make himself a better man for her. He wasn’t that man, yet. He didn’t know if he’d ever be that man for her. But she deserved better than him; thus, their relationship could never move beyond platonic partners until he felt himself worthy of her. He had no idea what that would take, but he knew he had to reach that point before proposing himself as an acceptable suitor to his fellow Witness.

Crane heard the bathroom door open and Abbie step out, her footsteps soft against the carpet. He continued to stare out the window—at the parking lot, where a few people milled about—trying to keep himself from clenching and unclenching his hands too obviously, trying to regain his composure, trying not to think about wet skin and those eyes, my God, those eyes—

"Crane," Abbie said behind him.

He jumped a little, startled. Turning, he saw that Abbie wore little more than a chemise—what she would term a tank top—and good God in heaven, how were those drawers legal? He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

"Look, we can’t act like nothing happened," Abbie continued. "But we know what happened: you saw me naked. It was an accident." Abbie waited a moment, most likely for him to look at her again.

Crane opened his eyes, gazing down into Abbie’s upturned face. Her eyes seemed worried, but otherwise she seemed calm. “Yes, Lieutenant, of course,” he said quietly. “Please accept my apologies, regardless. All is well between us.” He almost bowed—it was what he would’ve done if he’d offended a lady so greatly during his time—but stopped himself. So instead he just curled his hands into his breeches, trying to control his breathing.

Abbie eyed him a moment, clearly not believing his words. “So we’re good?” she asked.

Were they good? _Were they good?_ Crane’s gaze darted to the expanse of chest exposed by Abbie’s tank, her legs so bare in whatever it was she was wearing, her hair piled on top of her head, her entire presence smelling of roses—no, he was not _good._ He was so far from good that he felt like he’d explode. His breeches were tight, his very skin was tight, he felt hot and cold all at once, and he wanted to take Abbie in his arms and kiss her until she moaned and they didn’t know where one began and the other ended, and he wanted to kiss her throat and lick her collarbone and take her and make love to her until the sun rose in the morning—everything he swore he wouldn’t do.

So all he could say was: “We are indeed good, Lieutenant.”

As they prepared for bed, Crane merely took off his boots and his coat, intending to sleep in the chair in his clothes, not merely for modesty’s sake but for his own sanity. If he stripped to his small-clothes and lay beside Abbie, he knew he couldn’t control himself.

But as he sat down in one of the orange chairs adjacent to the bed, Abbie glanced up, eyeing him with displeasure. “Crane, seriously?” she said with that voice she had when she was both annoyed and amused. As she crawled underneath the covers, she just looked at him. “You don’t have to do that.”

Crane folded his arms across his chest. “It is no trouble,” he replied. “And I’ve certainly slept in more uncomfortable places than this.”

Abbie just sighed and bent over to flick off the light, plunging the room in darkness. “Suit yourself,” she said before turning over.

Crane tried his best: he truly did. But the cushion of the chair was so thin that his arse fell asleep within minutes. As he shifted and tried to find a comfortable position—maybe he could drape his legs on the table, or maybe he could sit sideways—suddenly the lamp’s light illuminated the room once again and Abbie was up, standing in front of him, tugging him towards the bed.

"Get in the damn bed, Crane. All that noise of you trying to get comfortable is going to keep me up all night. And at least one of us has to get some sleep."

She let go of his wrist as she crawled back under the covers, flicking the lamp off beforehand.

Crane debated as he stood over the bed: he could try the chair again. Or he could sleep in the bed. He would certainly be more comfortable in the bed. But could he sleep next to Miss Mills, smell her, feel her body warmth, listen to her breathing—could he bear to experience all of those things?

He took a deep breath and slid under the sheets. Moving as far off to the side as he could, he tried closing his eyes, tried not to listen to Abbie shift, her feet rubbing against the fabric of the sheets, her sigh as she flipped from one side to the other. And he was so acutely aware of the inches of space between them that he couldn’t fall asleep. His body almost shook with tension, his heart pounding, and every time he shut his eyes all he could see was Abbie naked in the shower, so gorgeous that she took his breath away.

He heard Abbie move towards him before he realized her hand was on his shoulder. “Crane, are you asleep?”

He wanted to stay silent, to continue the charade, to act like nothing was there. But instead he turned over and faced her, her body only an inch from his, and replied, “No, Miss Mills. And I never could just sleep while in bed with you.”

*

Abbie stilled, Crane’s heat almost burning her hand, and she had the sudden desire to leap out of the bed, flip on the light, and demand that they just drive: drive and drive and drive and forget any of this ever happened. It would be easier, her racing thoughts told her, it would change everything if she let it. Change their relationship irrevocably—and what happened if it went south? How could they work together if their romance soured, or God forbid, transformed into antipathy and resentment?

Abbie gripped Crane’s shoulder harder and forced her fears aside, pushing them back until the vice around her throat loosened, until she could only hear Crane’s breathing—faster than usual, she noted—and she breathed in his clean, woodsy scent and she felt calm envelop her. 

“Are you well?” he asked finally, breaking the silence. He shifted, the metal springs of the mattress squeaking. He began to sit up when she didn’t respond, breaking their contact, and saying in a soft voice, “I spoke hastily, and thus I must beg your pardon. Let us speak of this no more.” She heard him sit up against the headboard, the bed creaking once again with his movement.

Abbie sighed, sitting up against the headboard with Crane. The wood bit into her neck, but it steadied her. Steadied her to say what she needed to say. “Don’t apologize,” she said in an even voice—more even than her heart rate was right now: it pounded in her chest like a bird in flight, and she took a deep breath before continuing. “I haven’t been honest with you. Not really.”

Crane remained silent, something she appreciated. The darkness of the room and his silence gave her courage to speak, and it was one of the many things she loved about him—his ability to ascertain her moods and read her like no one else had even been able to do. Not even Jenny could do that for her. “The truth is…” and here Abbie felt her voice fail her, her throat closing up, and suddenly a memory danced before her: Mama hugging her and Jenny goodbye, the last time they ever saw her alive.

“Abbie,” Crane said and took her hand in his. Enfolding in the warmth of his larger one, he squeezed her fingers with gentle pressure.

The memory dissipated, and Abbie turned toward Crane, even though she could barely make out his outline in the dark. The light from the parking lot showed through the plastic blinds, rendering Crane in soft, gray shadows, an indeterminate figure. But his warmth was real, his touch was real, and she knew everything about him was real and honest and worthwhile. _Just say it, Abbie. Just say it and get it over with._ “The truth is,” she began again, her voice steadier, “I want that, too. Something more. With you.”

Crane didn’t respond at first, and she imagined him assessing her, his eyebrows furrowed. Always watching her, always taking her measure. She knew that to him, she was a perpetual cipher, to be decoded and translated, but she imagined he enjoyed it. The man liked a challenge, she had to admit.

But her thoughts scattered when he lifted her hand and kissed her fingertips: lightly, his breath fluttering against her skin, and she shivered, all of her senses attuned to that one feeling.  “God, _Abbie,_ ” she heard, Crane’s voice guttural and low, and she didn’t know who moved first, but suddenly they were entangled in each other’s arms and all she knew was: this was okay, no, this was right—no, this was _perfect._

Crane kissed her and she kissed him back and Abbie found herself on her back in the bed with Crane above her, his hand cupping her face, and she closed her eyes. His beard scratched her chin and she loved the little bite of pain against her skin, but in revenge, she nipped his lower lip. He reared back slightly, breaking the contact of their mouths, and she knew he was just watching her, trying to make out her expression in the dark. Then his index finger traced her cheekbone, down her nose, along her jawline, and she lifted her face to the touch, sighing as his hand trailed down her throat before returning upward to trace the curlicue of her ear.

“Abbie, you don’t know how long—”

Abbie turned her face into his palm, opening her eyes, seeing his dark silhouette above her. “I can guess,” she replied, and Crane huffed a laugh.

“Am I that transparent?”

She kissed his palm. “Yeah, but it’s okay. I wondered why you never said anything—until now, that is.”

Crane shifted until he lay next to her on his stomach. “I thought—” And here he paused, and Abbie sat up on her elbows to kiss his shoulder in wordless encouragement. “I thought you deserved better than me,” he finished. “Better than a broken man.”

“Crane—”

“I’ve found, however, that I no longer care. Or rather,” and here Crane enveloped her in his embrace, “if you will have me regardless, I believe I shan’t protest.”

Abbie poked him in the chest. “First of all, you’re an idiot.” Crane laughed again, and she added, “and second of all, we’re all fucked up. We wouldn’t be who we are if we didn’t go through shit.”

“Aptly stated, Miss Mills.”

Abbie pinched him, and he yelped. “My point still stands. And if I’m brave enough to face _us_ , then you sure as hell should be, too.” Abbie looked up at him. “Got it?”

“‘Got it,’” Crane parroted, his voice whisper soft, and Abbie just rolled her eyes before pulling his face down to her level, kissing him again. He let her lead for a moment, but he never was a man to sit idly by: he kissed her, his tongue dancing along hers, maneuvering her until she was, once again, on her back beneath him. She had a feeling this was going to be a favorite position of his, she thought with a small smile as he moved from her mouth to her cheek, his lips soft, his beard scratchy and heightening the sensations.

Crane, Abbie had realized long ago, enjoyed taking his time: she would often find him sitting on the porch of the cabin, a mug of tea on his knee, the steam drifting upwards while he gazed out into the horizon, an entire morning passing as such. He’d often meander along country roads for hours: once, some days after they first met, she couldn’t find him, and she was sure he was dead in a ditch somewhere. The afternoon arrived, and he came waltzing up to the cabin, not the least perturbed. She’d almost slapped him, she was so angry, although angrier with herself for worrying, she realized later. It was after that that she taught him how to use a cell phone and keep it with him _at all times_ —no, she didn’t care if he didn’t want to, in this he had no choice.

Now, though, Crane took his time learning her body, his hands gentle yet relentless, stroking, petting, plucking, his mouth moving in conjunction with his wonderful, torturous hands, and Abbie found herself shifting underneath him, dying for him to move faster. “Crane,” she said, her voice obnoxiously breathless as he reached underneath the elastic of her boy shorts, the pad of his thumb stroking the crease between hip and thigh. 

“Patience, Lieutenant,” he replied in that tone of his that bordered on condescending, and she almost tried to wriggle out from underneath him to get her revenge. But right at that moment he pulled her shorts off, tossing them into a corner, and she almost laughed before she choked back a moan.

His fingers parted her, slicking her moisture across her folds, and she bucked underneath him, trying to increase the pressure. Crane took his time, though, skimming and dancing and only stroking her with the lightest touch, and Abbie was about to pull him by his hair when he finally pressed his thumb on her clit. It didn’t take long—his thumb rubbing, his index and middle fingers inside of her all at once—and she came, a long, low moan eliciting from her throat, her teeth biting her bottom lip.

When Abbie recovered, she pushed herself up and took Crane by the shoulders, kissing him and maneuvering him until he was on his back, and she straddled his hips. Running her hands down the length of his torso, she sat above him, reveling in having him in her power now. She wouldn’t admit that she still shook from the orgasm, but Abbie could give as good as she got despite the circumstances.

“Enjoying yourself, Lieutenant?” Crane asked in a gravelly voice, and Abbie moved her hands under his shirt to scratch him lightly on his abdomen.

Leaning down, she whispered against his lips, “We’re just getting started.” Abbie kissed him, nipped at his bottom lip, before running her lips down his jaw, biting the line of his shoulder and neck, making him shudder. She followed this movement down his torso, kissing, biting, sucking, scratching, touching and touching until Crane was putty in her hands, and she gloried in his reaction. As she expected, Crane was a talker: telling her how beautiful she was (even though he couldn’t see her), how much of a temptress she was (that was a new one, but she’d keep it), how he’d waited so long for this (this much she knew, and she felt the same).

When she reached the buttons of his breeches, she smoothed a hand over his hardness, bulging against the fabric. She smiled in the darkness.

“Lieutenant— _Abbie—_ ” Crane bucked underneath her hands and she unbuttoned his pants with speedy alacrity, mourning that she couldn’t see him but reveling in the feel of him in her hands. Yes, her fellow Witness was packing and God she was here for it.

Moving upward, she straddled his hips once again, feeling his length against her, and she had to steady herself by gripping his shoulders.

“Abbie, God, Abbie,” Crane whispered in hair, his hand smoothing up her back before moving downwards to cup her ass, and she kissed the corner of his mouth in reply. She’d never been a talker in bed, and she usually found talkative lovers annoying, but with Crane, she knew he did it without even realizing it, with no attempt at artifice. This was him, and his reaction her: real, honest, and raw.

“Yeah, I know,” she whispered, unable to keep silent. She pushed herself back again and reached for his cock, placing it at her entrance before sinking down upon his length. Crane pushed his legs up, letting her lean against his thighs, and she rocked on him, shivers wracking her small frame. Crane kissed her hands, let her set the pace, and moaned so much she was afraid the entire motel would hear them.

Laughing, she leaned down to kiss him, make him quiet, and he lost control: thrusting up into her, hard and fast and she found herself making just as much noise, and before long she was burying her face in his shoulder, biting back a scream, and Crane followed her soon thereafter, his long body shaking.

Abbie collapsed on top of him, and Crane wrapped a long arm around her, his chin on top of her head. They breathed together for some moments, silent yet peaceful. Crane—who could never stay still for long—stroked her arm, her back, tickling her side until she had to roll off of him, giggling.

“No, don’t, I’m ticklish—” And of course once Crane realized that Abbie was ticklish on her sides, he relentlessly tickled her until she begged for mercy. “Please, no more, no more, Jesus, Crane,” Abbie said, breathless and laughing.

Crane just pulled her into his body, holding her close until her head rested on his shoulder. He played with her hand a moment before asking, “Abbie, are we…?”

Abbie reached up and placed a finger against his lip. “Yes, most definitely, and don’t worry.” She yawned. “We’ll figure it out in the morning.”

She could feel Crane smiling against her head. “I bow to your command as ever, Lieutenant.”

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was originally part of my one-shot set Bits and Pieces, but it really needed to be its own deal. Thus, if you've seen part of this before, well, you have: sorry 'bout that!


End file.
